Moving, always

I have packed boxes in my dream
Packed stories, packed books
Packed conscience
I convince myself that I'm free
That I'm not living in a shadow between
her and him and you and me
That there are no eclipses, no tan shapes on my skin

And these are all lies

I tell someone that I like to lie a lot
That someone is a stranger
And I unload my will for a short while, like packed promises
packed cigarettes
Smoke threatening to overtake my skin
But outside, the stranger smiles
The trees rumble on with the oncoming
What do you intend to do with screaming match at 4am in four walled house?
I just woke up to see the clock hanging upside down
(I'm too tired to fix this)
These are my mistakes, see? I'm
giving you a list
A loose grip, a fair out
It's not insincere, the way I want you to know everything about me
There's a garden in my backyard
left by my mother
And I like the plants that grow there,
I like the vines and weeds
But when it comes down to rain
when it comes down to two choices i want to
flee from—
Tomorrow, and what I wish for
Tomorrow is not what I wish for
But, ah, how do I end this? I'm
So are you
Two selfish people living together, exchanging
fingernails like hesitant trophies
Two selfish people who don't know what they want
Two selfish people, lost—
In the kitchen of my mind. The
packed sardines
The vegetable knife, pepper and cheese
I know how to prepare demise
I know how to try
There are hallucinations though, of real people
And there are shadows which comfort
Tripping over my own socks, into your arms
You are my phantom being, a philosophy
A poem rearranged by a lack of will
Heinous, you say? The way I work?
There's no organised way to perceive things, darling
My pet fish of seven years, my new cat that hates me
My mom, my guilt
My petty revenges I never act on—
Oh, but guilt never needed confirmation
Just a flustered, lying mess
A stilted disposition
(And I've got both)
An apprehension, colourful propositions
Harsh understanding, flickering light bulbs of a terrible faith
I try, for her
I try, for me
I listen and mistake everything I see
I try. To breathe.
Atleast in the packed boxes of my mind
I have got a thing to hold on to me

This poem is about: 
Our world


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